


A.K.A.

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Doggy Style, Dubious Consent, F/M, Floor Sex, Girl Bonding, Rough Sex, Wall Sex, blowjob, me tryna write a cockney accent, rough blowjob, use of the word cunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 09:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20338003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: Five vignettes with Butcher.





	A.K.A.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glass_Jacket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Jacket/gifts).

The first time you have him, it’s hard and fast against a wall. He lifts you and pins you, barely preps you – not that you need it – hooks two thick fingers in the leg of your panties and knuckles your open, wet slit.

“Nice and ready for me, hey?” He tips his head back and leers down at you, his eyes framed with fans of lush black as he pulls the satin aside and pushes inside you.

He doesn’t kiss you on the mouth, and you don’t care. He smells like diesel fuel and gunmetal, and he looks like the reaper of death. His menacing nature turns you on.

He’s brutal with his hands, gripping your thighs as he pumps into you. You hold on to the lapel and collar of his coat, drop your head back against the concrete wall in the dim parking garage of the night club.

You muster the breath and courage to say his name. “Will, I-”

“I know whatcha ya need, love,” he replies with a grin as wide as you are split by his thrusts. Then he angles your hips upward, and you gasp.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, hanging your head in the abyss between you, bracing your hands on his chest and taking him, hearing the sloppy, slick slide of him – over and over. You drop one hand down to press over your clit and come three thrusts later.

~~~~~~~

The second time, he’s Butcher – or at least that’s what you hear from outside the motel door.

He picked you up from the club, promised you a “proper fuck this time” and brought you to this place. It’s dark and the air is thick with the lurid sounds of a cheap motel.

He’s arguing with someone – more than one, it sounds like – then he bursts out the door and takes your hand, drags you toward the room he asked you to book. A stocky black guy shouts, “Butcher!” after you both.

“Can’t a man have a shower and a shag in peace these days?” he mutters to himself as you scurry to keep up with his long, determined strides.

When you reach the room, he nods to the door for you to key in. Once the door’s open he ushers you inside as he scans the parking lot. “Make y’self comfortable,” he says, pulling a bottle of whiskey from inside his coat. “Be a few.”

Then he disappears into the bathroom.

The shower turns on and you unscrew the cap from the whiskey. You hear plastic rings drag across the shower curtain rod as you locate and unwrap the cheap cups on the sink vanity. As you’re pouring brown liquor into the cups, you wonder what the fight was about – you’ve been wondering the whole time, but he has a way of keeping you in the moment. When you take your first sip of the mossy liquid, you hear the shower turn off and the curtain open.

You take a seat on the edge of one of the beds and wait not too long before he emerges from the tiny bathroom, steam roiling around him, towel low on his hips. His hair and his beard are damp, glistening messes, but he smells like soap and shampoo.

He stalks toward the bed. “Got one o’ those f’me?” He glances down at the cup in your hand and you turn your eyes to the one you poured for him where it sits on the nightstand.

Without taking his eyes off you, he lifts the cup and downs the whiskey in one go. “Thought I told ya to make y’self comfortable,” he says, a devilish smirk twisting his lips as he sets his cup aside. “That means _naked_, love.”

Your hair raises on the back of your neck and arms as he advances. He drops his towel to the floor and you can’t help but look – he’s hard and thick, curved toward his belly. He surprises you when he dips in for a kiss.

It’s deep and thorough, his hand in your hair, fingers sliding along your scalp. He tastes like mint and earth. Then he drags and pushes and pulls until you’re on your back and he’s hovering over you. You both tear at your own clothes.

And then he’s finally inside you – again.

He braces himself on his forearms, jaw clenched and brow furrowed as he moves. His eyes are so dark, _so dark_. You shudder beneath him, shake, close your eyes because it’s too much – his body holding you down, the thick, steady slide in and out of your cunt, his tongue swiping over his full lips – he’s staring right through you.

You loop your arms around his back, revel in the feel of roped muscle under skin then hook your hands over the backs of his shoulders and just _feel_.

He’s trembling, breath uneven. You can almost hear his heart hammering in his chest – can definitely feel it against your own.

You open your legs wider, tilt your hips and take him deeper.

“Look a’me,” he rumbles low and quiet. “Look a’me when ya come.”

And you do.

~~~~~~~

Her name is Komiko, but Butcher calls her The Female. It doesn’t rub you right, but you leave it. She doesn’t say much. Frenchie dotes on her, Milk skirts around her, and Hughie seems to watch over her in a strange stalwart kind of way.

She walked in on you in one of the bathrooms of the abandoned house Butcher dragged you to for your third tryst. You were just out of the shower. She held up a comb and a bottle of nail polish and gestured for you to sit.

She paints your toes blue-green as shallow ocean waters as you comb your hair. She left the door to the bathroom open, so when he passes by, he stops and stares. “This some kinda girl bondin’ thing?”

He looks annoyed yet slightly amused. Komiko ignores him and you try not to laugh.

“Leavin’ in twenty,” he says, raking his eyes over your towel-wrapped form. “Gonna get that fresh paint job mucked up.” And then he’s gone down the hall.

Komiko shakes her head when she looks up at you. She’s grinning as she produces a second bottle. It’s a quick-dry solution. Then you do laugh.

Once your toes are dry and your hair is barely damp, you wander the way Butcher had just moments before. When you get to the room, he’s suiting up. He throws a glance over his shoulder at you then turns to face you.

“Lose the towel,” he practically snarls, pulling you in by your wrist for an impatient kiss.

He cups and squeezes your breast, pulls the nipple slowly through his fingers, pushes a hand between your thighs to slip his fingers through your wet – you’re always wet when he’s around – all while backing you toward the bed. 

“Up on the bed, hands’n knees,” he says, spinning you away from him.

You climb up quickly and hear his belt jangle and pants rustle open. He grips your hip and drapes himself over you as he guides himself inside. “Always so wet f’me, aren’tcha?” he whispers in your ear, pulls the shell of it between his teeth. “_This_ cunt is mine, in’it?”

He hammers you from behind and you let him, languish under him until your chest is flat to the mattress, ass high in the air. He’s yanking you onto him by your hips, slow and hard, sliding over that spot before hitting deep every time. You feel yourself leaking down your inner thigh, feel wet, heat and electricity pooling in your gut.

He grips your ass, pulls you open, spits and slides a thumb over your hole.

You push back onto him with what little strength you have left and feel the tip of his thumb slip inside. 

“_Yeah_, ya like that?” He chuckles deep in his throat.

You nod furiously and cry out loud when you come wet and hard, spraying the filthy bedspread beneath you.

~~~~~~~

You’re on your knees, fisting and sucking his thick cock. He’s quiet, watching, combing fingers through your hair, unhurried.

Usually, everything is rushed with him, even if you have time. There’s a constant sense of urgency hovering around him. The lack of it now makes you uneasy, so you pull out all the stops because you want to make him come.

You flick your eyes up to his and he’s smiling down at you, lazy and relaxed. When you pull off him, spit, twist your fist around him, you call him Billy.

Suddenly he doesn’t look so lazy. His eyes harden and he straightens to his full height with his back against the wall. Then his fingers twist almost painfully in your hair as he pulls you back onto him.

You’re gagging around him as he fucks your mouth, works his way into your throat. Tears fill your eyes from the pressure and intensity alone, but this is what you signed up for with Butcher. You knew it would be treacherous – knew it and wanted it.

He’s grunting over you, his coat, veiling you on either side. You rest your palms on the fronts of his thighs as he comes down your throat, and you catalog that moniker as _do not use_.

~~~~~~~

The last time you see him, he comes to your home. You never told him where you live, but Butcher has his ways.

He pets your dog and glances around the main living area until he finds a seat on your sofa, dead center, arms sprawled open wide as he stares at you.

Before you know it, you’re bending over him, unfastening his belt and pants, pulling his hardening cock free and climbing astride his hips. He pushes your skirt up and you pull your panties to the side.

As you sink down onto him, hot and wet and slow, he gets harder by the second. 

“You always feel so good,” you whisper. Then you brace your hands on his shoulders and bounce to set a pace.

He pulls your blouse open, buttons flying, watching you intently, gnashing teeth and bruising fingertips as he pulls the cups of your bra down to toy with your nipples. Harsh but warm twists and pulls and dirty words are what make you come.

And then you’re on your back on the floor, Butcher pushing you open wide with his hands under your knees. He’s on his own knees, jolting you across your rug. The afternoon light spills across your heaving breasts and shocks through his dark eyes.

You’ve never seen him this way – regretful, closing off.

He shuts his eyes as his hips start to stutter, lets his head fall back and groans. You feel him spill inside you, hot and cold at the same time.

When he walks out your door, he turns and looks down at you, lightly holds your chin between one crooked finger and his thumb. He huffs a warm breath and a small smile before leaving without a word.


End file.
